Should she write or should she not? Should she ask Bertha to do it? Yet—why not herself? There had been a time, many years sooner, when during six happy weeks, Prue had seen much of Robert Kelly. She had liked him, and he had liked her—so much that some had counted it to be far more than mere liking. But nothing had come of it all. A cloud had crept between somehow, and Mr. Kelly had drawn back—gently, so as not to give needless offence, but unmistakably.
Prue suspected a misunderstanding, but she could do nothing. He might have taken steps to clear the mystery, if mystery existed. She could not stir. Then he went away, saying good-bye kindly and calmly, only looking rather pale: and Prue suffered in secret, but made no sign. Her life had been shadowed by the long pain of that girlish disappointment; yet she never spoke of it—even to her mother. Nor did she blame Robert Kelly. He might have been deceived about her: or she might have misread him. She was only sure of one thing, that he had not deliberately sought her, with any intent to deceive. She could far more easily believe, in the teeth of her own memory, that he had not sought her at all.
This was seven years ago, when Prue had been a girl of twenty-one: and still at twenty-eight, something of the shadow rested on her. For three or four years she had heard of Robert Kelly fitfully, casually; and since then she had lost sight of his whereabouts, but never of his vision in her mind. When Cecilia spoke of "Mr. Kelly," it had been a possible revelation—a possible certainty that at least he was alive still: and before many days she had satisfied herself, without seeming to ask questions with an object, that Cecilia's Mr. Kelly and her Robert Kelly were identical. Old longings, half-asleep, had been awakened.
To write to him herself—might not that step be misconstrued? Yet why? They were acquaintances: no more: and Prue had a message given her to deliver. Was it not her duty to give it direct? She could not trust Felix.
Prue drew her writing-case near, and indited a note slowly, spoiling three sheets in the process. It contained the simplest and barest statement of Cecilia's message. It began "Dear Mr. Kelly," and ended "Yours truly, Prudence Valentine." It made a slight allusion to past acquaintanceship and no more. The writing was firm and clear; only in the doing of the signature she had a vivid recollection of his face, and her hand shook. The tremulous curves of those two words held a message for Mr. Kelly.
He was very thankful for the contents of the letter: thankful, not only to have done no harm, but to have done positive good, which in his self-distrust, he had not expected. But this was, for the moment, not the leading thought. Robert Kelly was a man, and a lonely man. He had given his heart once to the young girl, Prue Valentine: and he would have asked hers in return, but for some foolish local gossip which had checked him. It had not occurred to him to doubt the truth of the gossip: to find out at least whether his informant were trustworthy. He had simply drawn back, and had fled from the place.
And now—he found her still unmarried. The thought came—what if it were not too late?
He spent an indefinite time looking at the signature: and the very words of that old piece of gossip, which had so marred his happiness, came up again. Not only that she was already engaged, or as good as engaged to another; but also, that she had spoken slightingly, laughingly, of him—Robert Kelly. That had cut deeply. And it might have been true: why not?
Mr. Kelly had a humble opinion of himself; and he was not in the least surprised that some people should laugh at him, or talk slightingly of him. Only that Prue Valentine should have done so—there was the sting!
After all, it might not have been true: since the other half of the tale was not. If the other half of the tale were not! Mr. Kelly doubted again here. Prue might have been engaged, as report had said, and the engagement might have been broken off. The little note told nothing. It was friendly, but calm and distant. Only—that quiver in the signature stirred him. Yet, why should it mean anything? Somebody might have touched her elbow as she wrote.